


The Possibility of Being

by k_drake



Series: Baldur's Gate: Twice-Told Tales [2]
Category: Baldur's Gate, Forgotten Realms
Genre: Blood, Bloodplay, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Self-Harm, Sibling Incest, Smut, Snark, is that a Plane in your Pocket or are you just happy to see me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-11 11:23:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3325652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/k_drake/pseuds/k_drake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wounded, Imoen is forced to stay in the Pocket Plane to recover with only Sarevok for company.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Possibility of Being

**Author's Note:**

> "L'enfer, c'est les autres."--Jean-Paul Sartre

            Imoen would have to stay behind; she needed to recuperate from her injury. 

“I just don’t understand,” said Aerie, her pale hands like white doves fluttering above the raw flesh of Imoen’s forearm.  “It won’t heal.  I mean, it will, but then it doesn’t stay closed.”  She frowned.  “Abazigal must have infected you with some sort of poison.”  She looked at Imoen, distress in her blue-violet eyes. 

“I don’t know what else to do!” she burst out.

“It’s all right,” said Imoen soothingly.  “It doesn’t hurt that much.  I’ve had worse.  Just wrap it up and I’ll be fine.”

The matter might have ended there if not for Aerie’s insistence that Imoen was unfit to travel.  “We don’t know how long the poison will last,” she said.  “What if it gets worse?  What if she passes out during battle?  What her wound gets infected and she can’t be healed before the flesh begins to rot?  She might lose the arm.”

These arguments were enough to banish Imoen to convalescence while the rest of the group continued to hunt Bhaalspawn.  They left her fuming in the Pocket Plane—the small otherworldly abode Imoen’s brother Abdiel had carved out of the Abyss with the force of his will.  She lay alone on her pallet, where her brother had actually _tucked her in_ before they left her alone. 

“How do you know when Imoen is angry with you?” asked a taunting voice. 

Not quite alone.    

“You don’t,” she said crisply, turning to face her half-brother.  “Because I’m not.”

“Is that what you told our brother before he left you here to pursue his own glory?  To be fair, he can hardly ascend to godhood if he’s constantly playing nursemaid to you.”

“Abdiel doesn’t want to be a god.”

“Sister _dear_ , who doesn’t want to be a god?”

“I don’t, for one.  Leave me alone, Sarevok.  Don’t you have anything better to do?”   

“No,” said Sarevok grimly.  “I’m not trustworthy enough to be released into the world, even in spite of the damnable oath I took to obey our brother.”

“He never said you couldn’t leave,” said Imoen.  “I suppose you have nowhere else to go.”

Sarevok laughed unpleasantly.  “Were you trying to be spiteful just now?  You’re terrible at it.”

 “You don’t know me as well as you think you do.  Or him.”

“I know that you’re ready to sacrifice yourself for him, and he’s ready to let you.  I know that he is either too craven or too dishonest to face his ambition.  Or both—the two are not mutually exclusive.”

“If I mean so little, then why did he bother to save me?  Why did he save _you_?”

“He didn’t save you, Imoen, he _won_ you.  If you were a god, would you prefer a pile of rags, or a heap of hard-won treasure as tribute?  Would you rather your servants be feeble or mighty?  A sacrifice has to have _value_ for it to mean something.  Otherwise it’s an empty gesture.  Anyone can have weaklings and fools die for him, but to command the devotion unto death of those who are powerful in their own right…that is no small thing.” 

“Sarevok, that almost sounded like a compliment.”

“It was,” Sarevok assured her.  “When the time came for you to tear apart your own soul so he could leave his intact, and still gain me as an ally, you practically _begged_ for the privilege.  I couldn’t have planned it better myself.”

Imoen made a face.  “Not that you’re grateful.”

“I am not…ungrateful.  I am just sometimes…ambivalent about my fate.”

“Aren’t we all?”

“You don’t seem to be.  Perhaps it’s easier when there is someone there to dictate your every action.  Even now, I see you’re preparing spells, readying yourself for when, _if_ Abdiel might want you again.  Isn’t it nice to be wanted?”

“You tell me.  Isn’t that Tamoko why tried to spoil your plans?”

Sarevok grinned at her, apparently unaffected by the barb.  He was not an ugly man, she thought, with his jutting cheekbones and fathomless eyes.  She tried to imagine him with a softer expression, his face framed by the dark hair that was now only a shadowy hint on his shaven head.  She would never tell him this, but he resembled their brother a little bit. 

 “And then you killed her.”

“She didn’t leave us any choice, just like you didn’t.  We would have spared her if we could have.”

“I’m sure you would spare all of them, _if you could_.  But you can’t, because beneath all your blather about good and evil, right and wrong, there are only the weak and the strong, the condemned and the saved, and if you are unable to condemn, then you cannot be saved.  Although you are an exception, I suppose.”

“Oh?”

“Our brother shields you, saves you by condemning those who would harm you.  I wonder why, when you’ve clearly outlived your usefulness by now?  I would let you die.”

“I know,” said Imoen.

“You’re bleeding, by the way.”

 “Am I?” she asked absently, glancing at her arm with detached interest.  Indeed, her bandage had sprouted a crimson bloom from which drops fell like red dew.

“Are you an idiot?  Yes.  Look at yourself.  Look at the floor.”

“Does it bother you?”  Slowly, Imoen began to unwind her stained bandage.  “I didn’t realize you were so squeamish, Sarevok.  You’ve spilled enough blood in your time, including some of mine.” She touched a scar on her forehead. 

Sarevok shrugged and pulled off his shirt.  Imoen’s first instinct was to look away, but she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.  He pointed to a puckered starburst of a scar located just beneath the clavicle on the left side.  “That’s from one of your arrows, sister _dear_.”

“Terrible,” said Imoen.  “I can’t believe how far from the heart that landed.  May I try it again?”

 “I remember everything about that night,” said Sarevok, as if she had not spoken.  “Every minute, every movement.  I can remember the feeling of my heart pounding, the very blood in my veins, the realization that I must kill or be killed—become death, or succumb.  It is now that I am idle that time’s passage has no meaning. Did I do a thing yesterday, or the day before?  Does it matter?  Tomorrow will be more of the same.  I didn’t know what living was until I stopped doing it and started simply existing instead.” 

“I can see how sitting around here would be a bit of a letdown after plotting thousands of murders in an attempt to steal the divinity of a dead god.”

“My only consolation is that since you and our brother are too moronic to make proper use of the power being offered to you, no one will best me in achieving that goal.” 

            “That’s right, I’ll never be anyone special.  Neither will you.  For all your huffing and puffing, you could never be a god.  You could never lead the way Abdiel leads or make the decisions that he’s forced to make.  When you tried, it turned you into a bloodthirsty monster.  You wanted everything, but valued nothing.  You’re the opposite of my brother.  Why do you think people follow him?  It’s because he makes them feel loved, even when they’re unworthy of that love.  Do you know he’s actually forgiven you for murdering Gorion, the only father he ever knew?  Abdiel pities you, when he should hate you.  You can call me weak and stupid all you want, but you know he isn’t.  You tried to break him, but he broke you.  You _made_ him fight you on your own terms, and he still won.  You think you loathe him, but you’re like some lovesick swain, trying to stay near him and fight by his side.  You might even think you’re entertaining some half-formed plan to betray him in the end.  Well, plan away.  It’s not going to work, and you’ll still be a nobody, and you’ll still be alone.”

“You sound like you’re in love with him.”

“Of course I love him.  He’s my brother.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand.  Of course you’d want to twist something and make it ugly, like you.  You look at the world, and you see only violence and hatred, not realizing that it comes from within you.”

There was a long silence.  Sarevok stared at her impassively.  When it became clear that neither of them were going to speak further, Imoen shrugged and took her leave. 

***

The blade was silver, but unlike most of Imoen’s martial gear, it was not enchanted.  Still, it was an exquisite piece of elven craftsmanship with its elegant proportions and intricately tooled hilt.  It had been a gift from the elf queen Ellesime.  Definitely fair compensation for the salvation of an entire city, Imoen thought wryly.  

Imoen’s arm was laid out in front of her like an offering, and she lowered the blade to it, caressing skin pale enough to reveal the sinuous green vines and small violet tendrils of the vasculature beneath.  Her wound was no longer bleeding.  The healing potion she had swallowed had done its work, and the flesh was beginning to knit itself back together, although at this stage the bonds of skin were still fresh and fragile, forming a slightly curved pink path down the length of her forearm.   

Imoen dug the tip of the silver dagger into her supine wrist until blood welled up around the blade.  Then she slowly dragged it upwards, her ragged breathing belying the thoughtful, steady progress of the knife along her arm.  The initial laceration achieved, she turned her arm on its side so that she could pin down a ridge of flesh created by the opening of the wound and begin sawing away at it delicately, teasing the skin back from the rest of the arm as blood pooled around the gummy bits of tissue the knife left in its glistening wake.  _Was this what it means to see past the pain?_ So intent was she on her task that she didn’t hear Sarevok behind her.  When she had seen him last, perhaps an hour ago, he had been deeply asleep and had seemed likely to remain so.  She started badly once she perceived him, which caused her hand to slip and jab the blade in deeper.  Imoen gasped and grasped at her bandages, mumbling something incoherent about cutting out an infection. 

“Do not lie to me,” said Sarevok. 

Imoen felt the words die on her lips.  She stared at him mutely, holding sodden bandages to her arm, which was weeping red.  Maybe he would just forget he’d seen anything, and go away.

“And here I had been underestimating Aerie’s healing skills.  Most clerics verge on imbecility, after all.”

Hurriedly, Imoen gulped the healing potion she’d stashed nearby.  Her arm began to prickle as her shredded flesh tried to repair itself.  The flow of blood slowed, coming out only in meandering rivulets.

Lip curled in disgust, Sarevok made as if to go.

“Wait,” she croaked.  He stopped, remaining half-turned, his face shadowed.  “You can’t tell Abdiel.”  He tensed, but did not move further away.  Imoen thought she saw a look of uncertainty cross his features, and she noticed that he was mirroring her own stance, clutching his arm.  With a few quick paces, she bridged the distance between the two of them and placed her hand on his shoulder, which felt unaccountably warm.  Her hand was bloody, and she felt him try to draw away.  Perhaps it was the blood loss, but Imoen was starting to feel woozy, and equal parts lightheadedness and desperation made her tighten her grip and press herself awkwardly into Sarevok, almost straddling his thigh, smearing him with more blood. 

He froze, and she took that as an invitation to kiss him, pressing her mouth to his and arching her body to meet his own.  After a moment, he reciprocated, forcing her lips apart with his tongue too fiercely and hungrily for it to be really pleasurable.  One of his hands moved the small of her back, and the other gripped her neck, wrenching it up to meet his mouth.  Imoen ran her hands up and down the length of his torso, lingering in the lower regions, allowing her fingers to dance lightly around the laces of his breeches.  He groaned when she cupped his cock through the thin leather and released her so that he could fumble the laces open himself and shed his clothing.  Imoen was wearing nothing but a rough-spun linen shift, so it was simple enough to lift it over her head and toss it aside.

The air that hit her bare skin was cold and a little clammy, causing Imoen’s nipples to stiffen and goose bumps to form on her arms and legs.  Heretofore, she had kept her eyes squeezed shut, and when she dared to open them she found Sarevok staring squarely at her, lustful but also challenging; if she was bluffing, he would call her on it.  He was beautiful, as if sculpted out of bronze.  Imoen shut her eyes again and went to him blindly, rooting as if by instinct.  He buried his head in her neck, and at the same time propelled her backward, so suddenly that she lost her footing and they tumbled ungracefully onto her pallet.  Undeterred, Sarevok rose to his hands and knees above her and kissed his way down to her breasts, sucking hard on the nipples. 

“Harder,” said Imoen.  He squeezed the soft skin and grazed her areola with his teeth, giving her a small nip.

“Harder,” she said forcefully, and he bit down while she writhed beneath him. “ _Harder.”_

Something flickered in his eyes, an expression Imoen had never seen cross his features before. 

Shoving all thought aside, she reached for his cock, and began to stroke it, tentatively at first, then with more urgency.  Sarevok answered in kind, his fingers rubbing her sex, then pushing aside her lips to delve into that dark wetness.  Imoen knew what was inside—she had seen the body’s contents spilled often enough on the field of battle—but she still imagined herself to contain a void, an enveloping darkness both welcoming and terrifying. 

“Take me,” she breathed into his ear, spreading her legs wider and arching her hips up. 

He hesitated.  She laughed at him mockingly, a high-pitched, almost girlish sound.  “As if you care,” she said in response to his unspoken objections.  “Do it.  _Now_.”

With a growl, he entered her, not without some difficulty.  Imoen gave a strangled cry as he shoved into her resisting flesh and began to thrust.  Each time, she bucked to meet him, tightening herself around him each time he drew back, then straining forward to slam their bodies together as hard as she could, as if they would fuse if only she could drive him deep enough.  She dug her nails into his back and buttocks, her fingers scrabbling to find purchase on skin slick with sweat.  Imoen thought she sensed him looking at her, but refused to open her eyes, preferring sensation to sight.  They were both silent, the only audible sound their ragged breaths punctuated by the unromantic slap of flesh against flesh.  Then, in the darkness behind her closed eyes, Imoen saw herself, eyes clenched shut, biting her lip as her body pushed against the ground, the better to strain upwards.  She maneuvered her hands below her pelvis so that she could raise her hips even more. 

Yet, they were not her hands, for her hands were still digging into his back, which, confusingly, she too could feel on her own back.  Dimly she realized that some of these sensations belonged to Sarevok, and as she gazed down at herself she saw her own grey-green eyes snap open, somehow simultaneously meeting Sarevok’s surprisingly intent amber gaze. 

Whatever he saw in her face, it made his thrusting increase in intensity, becoming almost frenzied until he climaxed, spilling his seed into her in a warm gush before collapsing on top of her, burying his head in her throat. 

Imoen watched him with hooded eyes, taking the opportunity to momentarily and unobtrusively appreciate the sinuous lines of his back.  His lithe, muscular form reminded her of someone.  Not Abdiel, but….

“Go,” said Imoen thickly, pushing him off, and out of, her.  The synthesis of their senses was over.  A trickle of blood smeared the insides of her thighs, mixed with her slick and Sarevok’s seed.  The dizziness had left her, and the mad desire was fading as well, albeit more slowly, leaving her aware that she was lying naked and disheveled on a blood-stained pallet, her hair matted with sweat.

Sarevok shrugged and got to his feet.  He reached towards her, and for a moment she felt renewed excitement well up inside her, but then his hand was moving past her to pick up his breeches.  “You know well that I can’t go anywhere too far, sister dear,” he drawled.  “We’re stuck here together, you and I.”

Imoen sprang up, willing the smirk on his face to disappear, and managed to stand unflinchingly before him, though she avoided meeting his gaze.  Her nipples were erect, their areolas an angry red from Sarevok’s attentions.  Faint finger-shaped bruises already mottled her breasts.  Moving deliberately, Imoen rummaged through her things and procured a fresh roll of bandages.  Turning away from Sarevok, she walked out of her makeshift room and made her way into one of the Pocket Plane’s larger side chambers.  In one of these rooms was a hot spring, and she sank gratefully into it, submerging herself completely in the warm pool, ignoring the whiff of sulfur that came from the water.  The wound in her arm had stopped bleeding for now, although it stung a bit as she soaked it. 

To her dismay, Sarevok followed her, sliding into the water beside her.  He ignored Imoen as she glared at him, performing his ablutions in a thorough and unhurried manner.  Only when he rose dripping did he speak to her, his warm breath in her ear mingling with the steam that rose from the spring.  “Now I know why our brother came back for you.” 

Imoen hoped that he might at least flinch at the five bolts of stinging magical energy she sent flying into his chest, but Sarevok just started laughing and sauntered away without looking back. 

***

It had only been three days.  Part of Imoen knew that it was absurd to expect the party back already; the other part couldn’t help longing for them anyway.  The Pocket Plane was beginning to feel more like a prison than a refuge, and she felt as if she had already read all her books and scrolls at least a dozen times.  At least she had not seen Sarevok lately.  The Pocket Plane was a mysterious place, its geography seemingly in a state of constant flux, and although Imoen doubted he was gone forever, she hoped that perhaps Sarevok would be somehow diverted and absent while in the meantime her brother would reappear to claim her.

She wished in vain. 

 “You’re pathetic,” said Sarevok.  She had not seen him for an entire day since their…encounter. 

Imoen sighed and put down the knife.  She had used it once again to reopen the old wound, which gaped in her arm like a bloody smile. 

“Only a fool punishes herself for the wrongs committed against her,” he continued.

“Is that what you think I’m doing?” she asked.  “Punishing myself?”

“I know what he did to you,” said Sarevok, tucking a strand of hair behind her hear and leaning in close to whisper, his breath warm against her cheek.  “I see it in my dreams sometimes.  His eyes are dull behind the mask, but the blade in his hand twinkles.”

“You know nothing,” Imoen sneered, scooting away from him.

“Do you think I enjoy these little insights?  Do you think I want to share dreams and memories with you?”

“We share nothing,” she spat.  “I have no dreams.”

“He kept you in almost constant darkness, so you couldn’t be sure of the time, but it felt like it was the middle of the night when he would wake you.  Sometimes he would smell sweetly of other women, and you wondered who they were and why he could not be content with them.  Sometimes he strapped you to the table first, or strung you up in chains.” 

She ignored him, electing to stare at her arm instead, as if the wound were a lock she could unpick with her eyes. 

“Once,” said Sarevok, leaning close, “you _liked_ it _._ ”

Taking up the knife, Imoen calmly stuck the point into an unblemished spot near the crook of her elbow.  At first it only dimpled the skin, and she had to press hard before a drop of blood welled up in response to the incursion of metal.  Imoen began to rotate the point slowly, twisting it deeper into her flesh before starting to saw through the skin in a vertical motion. 

Sarevok grabbed her wrist. 

“If you kill yourself, Abdiel will blame me,” he said gruffly.  “He’d have my head off my shoulders before I could explain you did it on your own.  Even if I had time to explain, he’d never believe me.”

“I won’t die,” said Imoen softly.  “Although if I wanted to, you wouldn’t be able to stop me.”  She took a sip of healing potion, enough to slow, but not stop the bleeding. 

 “You’re so determined _now_.  Why didn’t you struggle against Irenicus?  Why didn’t you fight back harder, try to escape?  I have yet to see a lock you can’t pick, and you’re a powerful wizard.  If it had been me…”

 “Enough.  Go away, Sarevok.”

“With pleasure.  But I’m taking this,” he said, as he swooped down and grabbed her knife with alacrity. 

Imoen shrugged.  “If you must.  I have others.” 

Sarevok swore, clenching and unclenching his fists.  The strange, troubled expression she had glimpsed yesterday again flitted over his features.  “Why are you doing this?” he burst out, surprising her and, judging from the look on his face, himself as well.

“I’m looking,” she said eventually, picking at a frayed edge of flesh with her nail. 

“ _Stop it._ Looking for what?”

 “When I first got the wound, I thought it was nothing,” said Imoen.  “Just a scratch.  But it kept bleeding, and I realized it was deeper than I thought.  I looked at it, though, and I realized that it didn’t _feel_ like anything.  I mean, it hurt, but the pain wasn’t _mine_.  I know it sounds odd, but I don’t know how else to explain it.  So much has already been taken from me, I started to think that maybe I didn’t have anything left besides a body that eats and sleeps and breaths and bleeds.  Then I thought maybe, if I just dug a little bit deeper, I’d be able to find it.”

“It?”

“Me.  Whatever it is that makes me what I am, that makes me feel whole.  Everything is in fragments now.  But I’m still a single piece.  How can that be?”

“You felt whole to me.  Although you won’t be for long at the rate you’re going.”

“There must be something more,” Imoen insisted.  “Something that’s mine.  I can understand that most of what I’ve lost never really belonged to me in the first place.  My parents, my home.  When I had no more possessions to give, Irenicus came and took all he could, but it wasn’t everything.  It couldn’t have been, because there was still something to give away.”

“To me, you mean.”

“Yes. 

“Abdiel asked you to do it.”

“Yes, and I chose to comply.  Nobody forced me.”

“Do you regret your decision now?”

“If I did, it wouldn’t change anything, including my choice.”

“Abdiel doesn’t really know you at all, does he?”

“And you do?”

“I never said that.  That’s the difference between me and him.  I don’t marvel at how happy and bright you are, in spite of it all.  I don’t task you with being the keeper of my optimism.”

Imoen scowled.  “It’s not like that.”

“Oh?  How many times have I seen him sit beside you and reminisce about Candlekeep?  How many times has he tousled your hair or kissed your forehead as if you were a child?  Intentionally or not, he makes you pretend as if your innocence has not been lost.”

“What’s wrong with remembering our childhood together?  We were happy once.  We’re not allowed to enjoy that?”

“He treats you his talisman, the little piece of Candlekeep he carries with him, instead of his sister.  He doesn’t see what you are.”

“And what am I?”

Sarevok shrugged.  “I don’t know,” he said.  “Whatever you are, you’re stronger than you think.”


End file.
